lights will guide you home
by urafever
Summary: an au story of arthur/ariadne based off of the novel 'the time traveler's wife.'
1. Chapter 1

Hey, guys! This is going to be a pretty long fic, so bear with me. This is just a little Arthur/Ariadne fic based off of The Time Traveler's Wife, so if you haven't read that or know the background on it, you'll probably be a little lost. I'll try and answer any questions you might have as best as I can, though! Basically, Arthur is a time traveler, and after their first meeting in his chronology, he begins to time travel back through her life, meeting her at various points. It's pretty hard to explain, but it's basically based a lot off of the book, and if you check out the synopsis of it on wikipedia it might help!

Also, it's my first fic, so hopefully it's not too terrible.

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**May 15****th****, 1994. Arthur.  
**

She's six when I see her for the first time – at least, for the first time that isn't the present time. She's small and all gangly limbs and her hair goes past her waist and she's already got one of those damn scarves around her neck, although this one is admittedly more juvenile. It's in that second that I'm extremely grateful for the random shed they've got in their backyard that I managed to find a shirt and ratty jeans in, because I'm sure she would be less than ecstatic if she glanced over and I was naked – I know I probably wouldn't have particularly enjoyed that at six years old. I can't help but smile to myself as I look at her, bent over a pad of paper as she tries to replicate the bird that's sitting on the branch in front of her, but I step on a twig as I take a step closer and the snap frightens the bird. Her head lifts to see who was the cause of the disturbance, and she immediately scrambles backwards, toppling over herself as she does so.

"Whoa, whoa, I'm not gonna hurt you," I tell her in what I hope is a calming voice, about to reach out to help her up, but I think better of it once I see her shrinking further away and I take a step back instead. I offer her a small smile as she narrows her eyes at me, looking very much like a skittish deer who's about to bolt.

"I'm not allowed to talk to strangers," she says matter-of-factly, peeking at me from behind her curtain of hair uncertainly. She stands and awkwardly shifts her weight between her feet, chewing on her lip. I can tell she's intrigued, but I don't press her. I don't want her to run away. That would defeat the purpose.

"I'm Arthur," I offer instead, taking a cautious step towards her, pleased when she doesn't back away. She's rooted to her spot, still letting her hair shield her eyes so I can't tell if she's looking directly at me or not, and I slip my hands into the pockets of my trousers.

"So?"

"So, that means I'm not a stranger anymore."

This stumps her and she lets out an exasperated sigh. Her hands are cocked on her hips after a minute, and she's tilting her head with a frustrated look on her face. Her nose is crinkled and I almost chuckle, but I don't.

"That means you can talk to me now."

"Are you going to kidnap me or what?" she asks, letting out a defeated huff. I blink a few times, a little astounded at her comment, but I manage to recover fairly quickly.

"Do I look like a kidnapper to you?" I ask her, smiling gently and tilting my head to the side. I decide now isn't the time to move closer.

She reaches down to pick up her fallen pad of paper, clutching it to her chest before standing to study me. "It could be a trick, you know," she says with a shrug of her shoulders. "A part of the charade. I don't know how weirdos minds work," she declares, though she doesn't move away from me. That must be a good sign.

"I just want to talk to you," I tell her with a chuckle, running a hand over my hair, though it does nothing considering how carefully it's slicked down. "Maybe, I don't know, get your name. See what you're drawing."

She hesitates, somewhere between taking a step closer and charging back to her house, and I can see the flicker of indecision in her eyes.

"I'm a good guy, I swear. Like Batman."

This makes her giggle, and she moves to sit on the ground a few paces from me, looking up at me expectantly. I vaguely think about the fact that I'm going to get dirt on my pants, but I throw caution to the wind and join her, waiting patiently for her to speak.

"My name's Ariadne," she tells me slowly, even though I already know. She peeks up at me briefly with a tiny smile before her cheeks flush and she glances back down at the pad she's cradling in her lap. "It's silliness, really," she offers as she flips it open to the last page. It's a quick, sloppy sketch of the bird I frightened earlier, but it's nonetheless advanced for a six year old. I glance up to see her watching me expectantly, her lips twisting into an uncertain grimace.

"It's beautiful," I tell her earnestly, and she beams, glancing back down at the pad, which I take as an invitation to flip back. It's got dozens of little drawings – some of birds, some of the cat I know she got for her fifth birthday, and some are designs for what looks like a castle made out of cake and icing. "You've got a talent, you know," I say off-handedly, stopping on a quick little drawing of a cabin that looks particularly familiar. "You should build this one day."

"I can't, I'm going to be a princess," she informs me, scoffing at my idea. It amazes me that someone as utterly boyish and as unconcerned with appearances as she is could have ever wanted to be a princess, and I can't contain my grin. She grins back at me, looking altogether unsure of what we're smiling about, but not particularly caring.

"Princesses can have jobs, you know," I explain slowly. "You'll like this cabin in, say, 17 years," I tell her with a nod of my head, and her eyebrows knit together.

"How do you know what I'll like in 17 years?"

"I just do."

This explanation doesn't satisfy her, but I can't tell her more. She's only six, I have to remind myself. She wouldn't understand. And in a few seconds, I can tell that I'm about to get pulled away again, probably yanked back to the present – which I would be perfectly fine with, considering she was making me waffles when I left – and I slowly stand up.

"Can you do something for me, Ari?" I ask her, and she doesn't answer right away. It's like she's trying to gauge whether or not she should answer, and she finally lets out an annoyed sigh and stands.

"I guess so."

"Hand me your pad."

She hesitates for a flicker of a second before extending it towards me, and I flip to the first blank page I can find. In neat, clear handwriting, I print DECEMBER 1ST, 1995. I hand it back to her, and she frowns.

"I don't understand."

"Just remember it, okay? And, hey, if you wouldn't mind bringing a pair of clothes with you and maybe leaving them at the edge of your yard, that'd help me out a lot."

"Why?"

"Would 'because I said so' satisfy you?"

"No."

I'm about to laugh and tell her that's too bad, but I'm already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm sick and therefore stuck at home on a Friday night; I got bored, I updated. Don't expect updates this quickly all the time, haha. Thanks so much for all the positive feedback! It's so sweet, seriously. This chapter's pretty boring, I know, but stick with me, I swear it'll get better.

I don't own Inception or any of the characters, etc. etc. I wouldn't mind owning JGL, but sadly, I don't.

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**December 1****st****, 1995**

It's snowing. I know for a fact that present day Ariadne hates the snow. She says it just makes her uncomfortable, and she never liked the cold anyway. And it really is fucking cold right now, so I immediately start glancing around for the clothes I told her to leave, thankful to find them just a few seconds away from me, neatly folded. It's a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt, and she's had the sense to put a jacket with it. The fact that she's thinking about making sure I'm not cold makes me smile as I trudge through a deep snow bank around the back of her house, wondering if she always felt that way about the cold and snow, or if I might find her frolicking (while I can't particularly envision her frolicking exactly, the word seems to fit and I don't find the time to correct myself) around building snowmen or snow forts.

I can't help but smile to myself when I see that I'm right.

She's in the middle of trying to lift the head to her snowman up, but she's small, and she can't quite manage. I'm about six paces away from her, ready to help her, when she loses her grip completely and the head smashes on the ground. She looks as though she's going to cry before she glances to the side and catches sight of me, a cautious smile widening across her previously depressed face.

"I didn't think you were going to come."

"It's the day I wrote down, isn't it? December 1st?" For a moment, I'm a little startled, wondering if I've mixed the dates up and I'm late, or I'm early.

"No, it is," she says tentatively. "I just didn't think it was going to happen."

"Do you need some help?"

For a moment she doesn't understand what I'm asking to help her with, and she looks at me, puzzled. But then she follows my gaze to the snowman standing headless behind her, and she sighs dejectedly. "It's too heavy."

I smile warmly down at her and she beams back up at me, and she reaches to grab at my hand, her mouth turning to a frown when she realizes I'm not wearing mittens. "You're going to get frost bite," she tells me sagely, looking up at me with a face that mothers use to reprimand misbehaving children. I'm about to reply and tell her it's her fault I don't have mittens anyway when she shakes her head and turns back towards the house.

"Wait here. I think my Daddy has some mittens that will fit you." She starts back up towards her house, but suddenly turns and pauses. "So… stay."

The fact that she's acting as though I'm a dog is enough to make me chuckle, and in a flash she's turned back around and darting through the yard and into the house. I vaguely wonder if her parents even know she's outside; she's told me before that her father wasn't ever around much, something about being a surgeon, and her mother wasn't ever very maternal. She had a nanny, or a nana, or something. I'm having trouble remembering, and for a moment that bothers me, but then she's reappeared with a pair of large gloves in her hands, holding them up to me expectantly.

"Now you can help me," she says with a firm nod, reaching for my hand again and pulling me towards the headless snowman. The bottom and middle parts are perfectly sculpted balls of snow; at seven, she's already a perfectionist. I vaguely wonder how much time she's spent on it, but I'm distracted when she starts rolling the start of the head around in the snow to make it larger.

"Do you need help with that?" I offer, not wanting to intrude, but at the same time not wanting a repeat of a few minutes ago.

"No," she tells me indignantly, almost admonishing me. "I can roll it, I just can't lift it."

I smirk and nod, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket and watching her carefully spiral the ball around and around the yard. It takes her about two minutes to be completely satisfied, and she's ended right at my feet, balancing her weight on her knees and looking up at me through the curtain of hair that's only gotten longer since the last time I've seen her.

"You can lift it now."

I obligingly stoop down and lift it gingerly in my hands, making my way over to the snowman as she trails behind me, mumbling things under her breath, believing I'll drop it and all her work will have been for nothing.

"How come you didn't visit me for so long?"

It's out of the blue and startles me slightly, and I glance behind me. She's stopped in her tracks, an odd, puzzled look on her face as she watches me silently and gently settle the head on the rest of the body. I'm expecting some sort of smile or praise, but she continues to just stare at me, expecting an answer.

"I can't control the times that I come to see you," I begin slowly, trying to figure out how to explain this in a way that a seven year old could comprehend.

"But you knew exactly what day you'd come back," she retorts, irritated with me.

"Because I have a list."

"But… a list of what?"

"A list of days that I've come to see you before."

I can tell I've confused her, because her eyebrows are furrowing and I can practically see the wheels spinning viciously in her head.

"I don't understand."

"It's... complicated, Ariadne."

"You can call me Ari. You did last time."

"Alright. It's complicated, Ari."

This doesn't satisfy her, and for a second I think she's going to huff and storm off, and I'm sure the amused smile that comes to my face does nothing to pacify her. After a few seconds, I sigh and plop down in the snow. She mimics me, expecting a long-winded explanation, I'm sure.

"You see, I'm from the future," I start, watching her face. I can tell she doesn't believe me.

She laughs, but it's more of a disbelieving bark than anything else. "That's not possible."

"Of course it is."

"No, it's not."

I ignore her.

"I'm from the future, a future where you're much older." I pause, let her digest it. "You're 22 when I meet you for the first time. Well, the first time that I remember you - the first time all of our chronology just... naturally converges. I'm 29 then."

I've lost her, and I think about stopping, but she opens her mouth.

"You're not 29 right now?"

"Well, yes. But I'm... time traveling, like I said."

"This isn't making any sense."

"I told you, Ari, it's complicated."

She sighs, chewing on her lip, her eyes flickering repeatedly from me to the hands folded politely in her lap.

"In the future, you have this… pad of paper. And it has all these dates in it."

The wheels are turning again.

"They're dates that I've come to see you, before I'm 29 and you're 22."

"You mean the pad you wrote in the last time?" she asks, excitedly, like she's sort of starting to understand. She won't fully understand until she's older, and I know that, but she's smart for a seven year old.

"Yes. And, you see, I've memorized the dates from that pad. Then you'll know when I'm coming."

She's about to ask another question, but I hear someone calling her name from inside her house.

"I have to go. My Nana's calling me."

Right, Nana. Not a nanny.

"August 2nd, 1997."

She pauses, unsure of what to make of that, before the realization dawns in her eyes. "Okay."

"Make sure you write it down on your pad, okay? August 2nd, 1997."

"I will. Promise."

With that, she's bounding through the snow and back to her house. I smile fondly at her retreating form, glancing back the snowman and vaguely wondering if she's going to come back out and dress him up like my sister always enjoyed, but I disappear before I can start imagining it.


End file.
